


Tailspin

by SeaweedWrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Helpful Greg, Helpful Mycroft, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaweedWrites/pseuds/SeaweedWrites
Summary: Set directly after "The Reichenbach Fall"Sherlock was dead, and  John was falling into a tailspin.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still new to writing in this fandom, so I am still trying to find my legs here. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please feel free to comment and give constructive criticism. I want to get better. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> This takes place right after “The Reichenbach Fall”.
> 
> Characters are copyright BBC, etc.

The world was spinning.

 

Everything sounded like it was underwater. The words were muffled, muddy. People were talking to him, but his brain couldn't process what was being said. He could feel a gentle touch on his arm as people spoke to him, tried to comfort him. 

 

His head pounded. Bile rose in his throat. The only thing his brain would let him do was constantly play and replay the those last moments in his mind.

 

The last time he saw... him.

 

So many doctors huddled around that gurney as it was pushed through the doors of St. Barts. Doors closed with a final, world ending *THUD*. And then it was over. 

 

Then... he was gone.

 

He had no idea how long he had been kneeling there, fighting through stabbing pain and nausea.

 

And utter, utter futility. 

 

Eventually, people stopped talking to him. The gentle touches and soft words were replaced by a firm grip and a firmer voice. Someone was leading him somewhere. He wasn't even sure that his body would let him move. He rose unsteadily to his feet to take a step, and his body failed him. His legs turned to rubber and gave out. He fell forward. 

 

“John!”

 

He had understood that word. It had been yelled by two voices. 

 

Separate. 

 

Familiar.

 

He had no sooner tumbled down onto his hands and knees than there were two sets of hands helping him up. 

 

“Come on, John. I'll take you to the...” The voice trailed off, and- for just a moment- the haze cleared. He understood why the man had hesitated. Where was he going to go? Certainly not back to the flat. He couldn't go back there. Not after.....

 

….this.

 

“I'll take over, Lestrade.” It was the other set of hands, the other voice.

 

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

 

“Come, John. There is nothing for you here.”

 

Somewhere deep inside of John, anger welled. 'Nothing for you here.'. So callous, but that was always how Mycroft Holmes had been, wasn't it? How could he even be functioning right now? After his brother had just....

 

NO. 

 

STOP.

 

The man's grip became firmer, and he started to tug John forward. 

 

“John.” Had his voice gotten... softer? 

 

“Come. Please.”

 

He could never remember hearing Mycroft say 'please' and sounding like he actually meant it.

 

Until now. 

 

Somehow, he managed to put one foot in front of the other and stumbled the short distance to the waiting car, where Mycroft's assistant was holding the door open for them. 

 

As he ducked his head to get into the car, he looked back at where he had just been. It was empty now. All the doctors were gone. All the witnesses had been taken in for questioning. The only thing that was left was the blood on the stones. 

 

The last evidence of what had just happened.

 

His breath hitched, and everything went hazy again. 

 

Mycroft was talking to him. It might as well have been in a foreign language.

 

He isn't sure how, but he made it the into the limousine. He heard the door slam and the engine roar to life. And just like that he watched St. Barts get smaller and then finally disappear through the tinted window.

 

His brain was screaming 'You have to go back, he's still there, you can't leave him! You idiot. Say something. Stop this car. Go back.'

 

He opened his mouth to speak, but to his horror, all that came out was a terrible, agonizing groan. 

 

That got Mycroft's attention. Was there... concern on his face? 

 

“It's for the best.” Of course. He was a Holmes. He always knew what you were thinking. 

 

For the best.

 

The words rung hollow in his ears. 'For the best'? Is it for the bloody best that my best friend died? Or that you, you utter, utter monster, don't even seem to care? He was your brother, Goddammit! How could Mycroft be so.. 

 

..so Mycroft. So Holmes. 

 

All the things that he wanted to yell at Mycroft only came out as a long, exhausted sigh.

 

He closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning once again. 

 

It only seemed like a moment later when there was a soft touch on his shoulder, and he jolted upright. He must have dozed off for a moment. 

 

“We are here.” It was Mycroft's assistant, the one that he had tried to hit on years before. She offered him her hand and he took it, to help him out of the car. Behind her, in the wide, roundabout cobblestone driveway that lead up to the front door, Mycroft waited. Ramrod straight, leaning ever so slightly on his umbrella, cool as a cucumber as always.

 

Like nothing unusual had happened today. 

 

He hadn't even noticed that the sun had set, and everything was bathed in the warm, red glow of pre-twilight. Mycroft's stately home, which in all the years that he had known his little brother he had oddly never visited before, was already lit up. A beacon in the blackness. 

 

“Come in. My home is yours, for the foreseeable future.” Ever the pragmatist. 

 

They were out of London proper now, in the posh, upper class suburbs. But he was still close enough to see the downtown lights of the city- his city- twinkling in the distance. 

 

The lights of London looked just a little bit darker tonight. 

 

With all of the precision of a military man, John Watson turned crisply on his heel and walked towards the house. 

 

And an unknown future.


End file.
